He notices them the way he always does—too clean, too still, reflections that don’t quite match their movements. Men who don’t belong in a neighborhood like this. They’re two blocks back, but they’ve been there since the market.

By the time the streets narrow into industrial back alleys, the sounds of the main thoroughfares fading into a distant hum, Chuuya stops pretending this is anything but intentional. The air here smells of rust and stale water.

Something sharp pricks the side of his neck. Small. Clinical. Wrong.

Footsteps approach, steady and precise. Rubber soles on wet pavement.

And then everything goes black.